Banger in the oven

Less than 24 hours after turning on my leopard print boot and exiting London Fashion Week, I found myself back in the forecourt of Somerset House on Saturday lunchtime.

It wouldn’t have happened if my friend The Box of Wine hadn’t convinced me I’d missed out on two things that Friday night. The first was Zack (I spent some time virtually stalking him on Google streetview) and the second was an exhibition that could have been the most interesting event of my yawningly dull fashion career so far. I’d missed a party for All Walks Beyond the Catwalk, an exhibition designed to expand the narrow vision of beauty offered by the fashion world, by featuring models aged 16 to 65 in size 8 to 16 wearing outfits created by young London designers.

I figured that maybe the fashion world was more interesting than I gave it credit for, so I popped along to Somerset House with my all access pass (still with traces of Zack’s DNA on it). Dressed in my best casual chic (denim plus new M & S neck scarf) and bare yet dewy makeup, in case I bumped into Zack. Armed with a studded truncheon in case I bumped into in Nuclear Waste of Space Karen.

Typical. The only person I wasted my new barely there blusher on was the yawning grouchy chasm that is Ben. Weird, difficult to talk to, Ben. At least he wasn’t wearing a cravat. Just a rather naff looking aertex shirt and jeans that were too high waisted for a man.

I dispensed with the small talk and dived straight into why I was there. Told him I was hugely in support of an industry that encouraged individuality. He knocked back his espresso (again, like the cravat – what’s the point?). He said he completely disagreed, that the standards set by the fashion industry encouraged healthy competition between models to look as good as they could because clothes fundamentally looked better on thin people. Then he said, and I quote;

“There’s a reason coat hangers are made out of wire and not your standard string of breakfast sausages.”
I immediately found myself wondering whether the first thing he thought when he walked over to me was “Vicky’s legs look like a couple of Porkinson’s Bangers in those ankle boots”.

Anyway, once I’d got over myself I was APPALLED. Caps effing lock.

“Don’t you think it’s masochistic, making these girls compete for the grave when fashion is all about individualism and self expression? They should be trying their hardest to look different from each other” I pulled against my polyester scarf which was making me sweat and itch.

He replied coolly “Take off your naïve, milk bottle bottomed glasses and go and consult The Sunday Times Rich List. Fashion pops up a few times. Bones sell clothes, Vicky.” And with that, he turned on his over-pointy brogues.